On a Monday,
I struggle to roll out of bed as I shake off the weekends haze
and thus begins
my morning tea craze.
In the kitchen,
the sound of water boiling
fills the small space.
I pour the hot water
into a chipped yellow mug
before lifting it to my face.
The smell from the contents
of the tea bag wafts to my nose
but the stimulating sensation
is short-lived
at the thought of
changing out of cozy pajamas
and into work clothes.
YOU ARE READING
Habits of the Heart
Poetry𝓜y words are the equivalent of a rose petal spiraling down the Grand Canyon, and you are it's echo.
